


satin, gunpowder, lace

by Book_Wyrm



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quickies, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 03:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20717327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book_Wyrm/pseuds/Book_Wyrm
Summary: He shouldn’t have to be standing here explaining why this is a bad idea. Shane’s the most practical person Rick’s ever met—he doesn’t take chances like this, is always the first to point out any potential danger and veer wide around it. But he just stands there, an eyebrow raised, waiting, until Rick says, “We don’t even know how secure that door is. You want to be running from walkers, wearing—” He glances down at the bunch of fabric in Shane’s hand, and his mouth goes dry.





	satin, gunpowder, lace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [almadeamla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almadeamla/gifts).

> For the prompt, "Lingerie." And for [almadeamla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almadeamla), who was sweet enough to beta-read this trash fire.
> 
> Very loosely set in the same verse as _[so rhett says to scarlett,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17221166)_ but much too plotless (and happy) to actually include there. This fic is a stand alone, and for anyone who doesn't want to go slog through that awful plotty monster, the basic gist of the AU so far as it applies here is: the events of series after "Save the Last One" never happen, Lori still dies in childbirth, at some vague point in the future Shane and Rick wind up in a relationship and lots of smut ensues. If this seems choppy at all, it's because I've deliberately cut out any references to plot so as to avoid spoiling later chapters of that fic.

**::: ::: :::**

It’s raining when they get trapped in the mall. A mid-spring downpour, heavy enough that the sound of raindrops striking off tarmac covers the sound of shuffling footsteps until the horde is almost upon them. The mall’s closest. They get past the lifeless glass doors just in time, manage to slide closed the metal sheeting at their backs and hear hands slam against the other side of it a moment later, a chorus of frustrated snarls. The darkness inside is complete; Glenn gets out his flashlight first, and when he flicks it on Rick sees the worried faces of the rest of the group circled around, all of them soaked and shivering, eyes shadowed by the flashlight beam as if they’re telling ghost stories at a sleepover.

The herd is massive, shows no sign of relenting, and neither does the rain. The group sets up a shabby temporary camp in the center of what used to be the mall’s food court, wary of every sound and shadow. They’re packed light; most of their supplies are back with the vehicles, no clear path between there and here. Waiting is the only option. The kitchens are full of rotten food, nothing they can eat.

After a few hours Rick can’t stand it, announces he’s going to look through the mall for anything they can use, and Shane volunteers to go with him. Carl gets to his feet as well, but Rick shakes his head. He flicks the brim of Carl’s hat as if this is just a detour, a moment’s aside, nothing to worry about, and tells him to keep an eye on things until they get back. It won’t be long.

Navigating the mall with only their flashlights is like navigating some massive subterranean cavern—long shadows skimming the walls, the hollow echo of their footsteps. A Pottery Barn store yields a few blankets; there’s a warm coat in Old Navy that’ll fit Carl. Rick’s ears begin to hurt from straining to hear the most minute noises, but the mall is silent around them.

Rounding a corner, the darkness seems to change around them, to lighten. In another few steps Rick sees why; there’s a Victoria’s Secret tucked away between an Eddie Bauer and Payless, and the store has a rainwashed skylight. Rick takes advantage of the momentary light to switch off his flashlight and examine one of the mounted maps of the mall, finding the bold red dot labelled _ You Are Here_.

“We should double back,” he says, after a moment. “Nothing else this way except elevators and the stairs. It’s a good thing the first floor’s this quiet. Don’t want to push our luck with the second.”

“Fair enough,” Shane says distractedly. The light through the skylight ripples with the rain, casting strange shadows over his face as he steps into the store. He examines the price tag of one mannequin’s translucent outfit and laughs. “You believe the price tags on this shit? You remember Leah? Bought some of this for her, that Valentine’s day we were together—damn near cost me a whole paycheck.”

“I never got that. What’s the point of spending that much on something you’re going to wear for about five minutes?”

Shane shoots him a wicked sideways look. “Five minutes your usual run time? Feel like I been getting real special treatment lately, then.”

“I’m talking about beforehand.”

“You spend _ five minutes _ on foreplay?”

“You know what I mean.” Rick glances back over his shoulder; all the silent darkness back there is making him edgy, and he’s half-tempted to spend some time under that skylight to steady his nerves. When he looks back, he sees that Shane seems content to do just that, stepping into the store, tucking his flashlight into his belt and examining a rack full of shimmery gradient lace. The plastic hangers clack quietly together. Rick follows him, puzzled.

“Something you needed in here?” he asks.

Shane just flicks an enigmatic look over his shoulder and doesn’t answer. He’s examining one item now, working the fabric between his fingers, and the expression on his face shifts to one Rick’s all too familiar with. In high school, that look usually preceded some scheme bound to land them both detention. He follows Shane’s gaze and looks at what he’s holding—a strappy, flimsy black silk-and-lace nightdress—and gets it.

“_No_.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

“I’m not putting that on.”

Shane stifles a laugh. “Don’t think it’s your color anyway, man.”

He sets off, gathering up a few items from around the store, fast and decided, while Rick watches, amused by the diversion. He can picture Shane in a football jersey, in a uniform, naked—not wearing lingerie. It doesn’t mesh with anything else about him.

“I’m not sure they have your size,” he says.

“Sure do. Right here.” Shane tugs one final hanger from the rack and turns, looking towards the dressing room.

Rick realizes with a tiny, electric jolt that this isn’t actually a joke after all. His amusement fades. “You’re not seriously— No. The rest of the group isn’t too far off.”

“Oughtta do this before they come looking for us then, huh?”

“_Shane_.” He shouldn’t have to be explaining why this is a bad idea. Shane’s the most practical person Rick’s ever met—he doesn’t take chances, is always the first to point out any potential danger and veer wide around it. But he just stands there, an eyebrow raised, waiting, until Rick says, “We don’t even know how secure that door is. You want to be running from walkers, wearing—” He glances down at the bunch of fabric in Shane’s hand, and his mouth goes dry.

“Door’s secure. Wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t.” He grins; a grin with a dare behind it. “Make yourself useful: check out those lotions over there, try’n see if you can find one that don’t smell like a cheap hooker.” And before Rick can voice any further protest he slips away, heading towards the dressing room.

Rick watches him go—on some level, he can’t shake the conviction that this must be a joke, that Shane’s going to reappear, dressed normally, laughing at the look on his face… but the dressing room door closes, and stays closed. Rick finds his gaze drawn to one of the store’s many posters, a grayscale of a woman leaning against a brick wall, the hem of a sheer robe tugged up to reveal the curve of one full hip, her hair forward over one eye and lips parted in some dark, almost mischievous expression. He thinks of Shane in an old bar back home, sipping at a beer bottle only to leap up out of his seat with a roar as the Bulldogs scored a touchdown—he thinks of Shane cuffing a drunk who’d tried to punch him, a knee between the guy’s shoulder blades, barely winded by the scuffle. The images won’t seem to line up in Rick’s mind. He takes one last look at the empty hallway. He can see shadow shifting beneath the dressing room door, and it sends his heart clamoring up his throat.

He goes numbly over to a display of lotions—no, _ Velvet Body Cream _, as the label insists. They all smell too-sweet, cloying, cheap. In the end he chooses at random, tucks one into his pocket. They won’t use it anyway, he thinks. This isn’t really going to happen.

At his back, he hears the dressing room door open. His nerves are fizzing like a shaken soda can when he turns around.

Somehow it isn’t feminizing. The slim straps of the nightdress only make Shane’s shoulders seem broader than usual. The lace hem falls just to the middle of his thighs, hangs a little loose around his narrow hips. And the plunging neckline, of course, is nothing new.

Shane’s fighting a smile. “You think this cut makes me look too matronly?”

Rick tries to laugh at the joke, but his throat seems to have closed. It’s a moment before he can say, “I think the store ought to have _ you _on those posters.”

“Not sure I could pull off the feathers,” Shane says.

He waits; Rick crosses the room to him. For a moment he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They hover, settle awkwardly for a moment on Shane’s bared arms. Gathering courage, he traces the lace around that low, low neckline with his fingertips, moves lower, feels the firm, flat muscle of Shane’s stomach beneath the silk. Something dark and hot and _ wanting _ shoots hard through his veins. It’s almost more intimate, more thrilling than touching naked skin. He drags his gaze up, manages to meet Shane’s eyes, for one last sober moment.

“You could pack this away for later,” he says. “This isn’t the time. Someone might—”

“No one’s going to come looking for us.”

“They _ might._”

Shane sighs, twisting to look back over his shoulder at the empty hallway, and for a disappointing splinter of a second Rick thinks he’s about to agree, to say they’re being stupid. But instead he just says, “Fine. Over here,” and wraps his hand around Rick’s wrist.

Rick resists—only for a moment, before letting himself be drawn along. He feels caught by that rush of teasing energy, and by the time they reach a clearance rack tucked into the corner, he’s almost laughing, unable to fight down a smile. He hasn’t seen Shane in this mood since the world got the way it is, hasn’t realized how much he missed it until it wrenches at something in his chest now.

But they’re still too out-in-the-open, not exactly secluded, and he’s about to say so when Shane gets an arm around his neck and hauls him in and kisses him. His lips are warm, firm, and Rick feels the slam of both their heartbeats, hears his own rushing in his ears. 

He speaks against Shane’s mouth, gets out, “This isn’t—” and then he loses track of what it is and what it isn’t because Shane, always more action-oriented, chooses that moment to slide a hand down between them, palming Rick’s cock through the denim of his jeans. Rick stops protesting. He forgets about the rest of their group inside the mall, the walkers outside it. He arches into the touch and Shane seems to sense he’s won, because he draws back with that cat-that-got-the-cream smile of his and turns around, sweeps the display table clear of a selection of half-off pajamas.

“Best thing if you don’t want to get caught doing what you’re doing is to do it in a hurry,” he says.

Rick nods—but it’s as if all the fine nerves in his hands have sparked awake at once, and he can’t seem to stop _ touching_. Smooth skin of Shane’s shoulders. The hard point of one nipple through the lace. He skims his hand down and the lace fringe of the nightdress falls around his wrist as he slips a hand up Shane’s thigh, beneath the silk, and finds the thin fabric of a pair of fish-netted panties, traces the seam of them up the sharp, straight bone of Shane’s hip, over to the warmth and hardness of his cock, feels the low noise Shane makes vibrating right through his chest. It leaves every cell in his body aching with need.

“You remember to grab that lotion?”

It almost _ hurts _to pry his hands away long enough to dig the lotion from his pocket, to fumble with the cap and get it on his fingers. It smells tart, fruity, undeniably feminine, but better than some of the store’s selection.

Shane twists to look back over his shoulder with a laugh. “Seems like five minutes was optimistic, don’t it?” he says, but his laughter trails off to a groan when Rick nudges aside the thin panties and slips two fingers into him without pretense.

“You’re the one saying it’d be best to hurry,” he says, and Shane doesn’t answer that, doesn’t even comment on the smell of the lotion, just braces his forearm against the display shelf and mutters something filthy under his breath. The nightdress falls forward, the hem skimming the edge of counter as Shane rocks back into Rick’s hand, a ripple of dark fabric. The rain on the skylight and their breathing the only sounds for a long minute before Shane reaches back and grabs at Rick’s belt, and Rick is only too happy to take the cue. He undoes his pants, not even bothering with shoving them all the way down. He leans to brush his lips over Shane’s shoulder and the thin strap of satin resting there, kissing it again and again as he pushes in.

This time Shane says, “Oh, _ fuck_,” loud enough for it to echo around the empty walls.

“Shh.” Rick leans flush against his back, breathless, his head spinning; Shane’s warm and tight inside, and Rick doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this, not if they live to be a hundred.

“_You _ shh,” Shane says, without much venom.

Rick presses his lips to his shoulder again, moving slow until he finds the right angle, the angle that makes Shane slap his hand flat on the plastic display counter and draw in a sharp breath. He repeats it and Shane shudders all over and rocks back against him and they fall into a rhythm. It’s easy to get lost in it—taste of sweat on Shane’s skin, smell of gunpowder and lotion and that new-clothes smell, the astounding heat of Shane’s body. A low, familiar stream of dirty talk. The reflection of the rain through the skylight shifts over the black silk so that it seems to ripple as they move, like water, like an oil slick. One of the straps has fallen loose, hangs down over Shane’s arm.

Five minutes turns out to optimistic on either count. There’s a too-fast clandestine urgency to it; Rick feels Shane start to tense under him, a kind of electric muscular charge, hears that dirty talk trailing off, and realizes there’s no point in holding back. There’s a dull ringing noise in his ears when he comes, silky fabric bunched tight in his hands. He feels Shane coming a second later, with a bitten-down noise that sounds almost pained.

They’re frozen for a moment before disentangling themselves, breathless—and somehow laughing, thrilled by their own recklessness. Rick leans back against a shelf of purses and tote bags, legs shaking, trying to straighten out his clothes, passing a hand through his hair. With a flash of disappointment that Shane’s already straightened up and is tugging off the night dress over his head. Quick furl and snap of silk. He flips the price tag around to read it, an eyebrow raised, then tosses it in high arc for Rick to catch.

“One hundred and thirty bucks,” he says. “Think it’s worth that?”

Rick thinks he would’ve pay two hundred, two thousand, would’ve taken out a loan for a few minutes like that. But chances to be alone like this are rare—there’s always something to run from on the road, always someone in the next room, too much he wants to do and never enough time to enjoy it.

He runs a finger down the edge of one lace flower and says, “Don’t know how well it’ll go with the rest of your wardrobe.”

They tidy themselves up in front of the dressing room mirrors, making sure nothing is amiss. That careful, controlled distance snapping back into place. When they head back to the rest of the group, there’s lantern set up, the light kept low to conserve fuel, and everyone shoots to their feet at the sound of approaching footsteps, standing tense and ready until Rick calls out a low greeting and they relax again.

When they draw near, Glenn asks, “What smells like passionfruit?” and without missing a beat, Shane replies, “Spent about two minutes a Bath and Body Works back there. Wouldn’t believe the smell of those candles, man.”

**:::**

Rick returns from his late shift on watch at the mall’s front doors—the herd is thinning a little, though the rain shows no sign of letting up—and Maggie takes his place. Everyone else is asleep, lying circled around on the mall’s scuffed floor. Not much privacy.

All the same, Rick finds a place to lie down next to Shane, close enough to touch, not so close that anyone glancing up will think it’s strange. He shakes out a blanket, tugs it over the both of them, lies still for a moment to be sure no one around them is awake. Sound of snoring.

This is reckless, he knows. Still—he slides his hand over, being sure to not to disturb the surface of the blanket. His fingers touch Shane’s t-shirt first. Simple, straight-forward cotton. The stiff, rough fabric of those cargo pants. Rick runs his thumbnail over one long seam until he feels Shane shift next to him, hears the low, amused huff of his breath. He takes hold of Rick’s wrist and guides his hand under the ridge of his belt, down the front of his pants, where Rick’s fingers meet, as he expected—sleek, warm silk.

**::: ::: :::**


End file.
